The Eternal Engagement (17 page)

CHAPTER 40

Mona

 

 

T
hank God, Mama V had taken her home.

The wisdom of that woman should never be underestimated. Mama V had told her, “Divorce him immediately. If you need me, all you've gotta do is call me. Mona, you go and you stay gone. Don't come back to this town for nothing. Don't contact Steven and tells your people not to give him any information on your whereabouts. Any man that'll tie you up like that will sho 'nuff kill ya. And don't worry about me. He don't want none of this.”

Mona wasted no time getting in and out of her house. While she was home, she stuffed her backpack with her last book of blank checks, her laptop, charger, and a few pair of underwear. She secured both her guns inside the vented hood over her stove. Where she was headed, she'd only need protection of her heart.

Her 4Runner was a catalyst to permanently get her away from Steven and to the airport. Not BFL in Bakersfield. Mona was almost at LAX. Her decision to depart from Los Angeles to Seattle was based on the greater availability of flights.

Without a functioning phone, Mona felt naked and disconnected from the world. She wasn't able to contact Lincoln nor had she memorized his number. But he'd invited her to visit him, and she was determined to get her man back.

She parked the car in long-term parking at LAX. Mona shoved the black plastic bag with Steven's gun in it underneath the passenger seat, then locked the door.

Chasing the airport shuttle, she yelled, “Wait for me!”

Eventually someone would report Steven's car abandoned, but neither his gun nor his 4Runner was registered in her name. She didn't care what happened to Steven. If she could've blown up his SUV with him in it and had no witnesses, she would have.

“Thanks for waiting,” she said, settling in a seat closest to the driver. “Do you know of a wireless store close to the airport where I can purchase a cell phone?”

“Yes, but it wouldn't do you any good. It's Thanksgiving Day, lady.”

Damn
. How soon could she get a phone? How was she going to get Lincoln's number?

Handing the driver a ten-dollar tip, Mona slung her backpack on her shoulder, hung her purse on the other, then exited at departures. Holiday travelers formed long curbside check-in lines that blocked the automatic sliding glass door entrance. Kids were in strollers, luggage was mounted on carts. Everybody was in the way.

All I need is to buy a ticket, she thought, eyeing longer lines inside at check-in and ticket purchase. So much for getting to Seattle by eleven. It was already noon.

Thirty minutes later she stood in front of a ticket agent. “I'd like to purchase a one-way ticket to Seattle.”

“What date would you like to leave?”

“The next available,” Mona said.

“The next flight is tomorrow at three p.m.”

“Tomorrow! I need to leave today! I know you have something. Please, lady, check again! It's a family emergency.”

No way was Mona staying in Los Angeles overnight when she could spend the night in Lincoln's arms. She'd . . . “Never mind.”

She walked away, then hurried back to the agent. “On second thought, I'd better get the ticket for backup. One-way, please.”

Stuffing her ticket in her backpack, Mona headed downstairs and got on the first rental car shuttle. She picked out an SUV, handed her ID and contract to the clerk at the gate. “How far is it to Seattle?” she asked.

The guy slid his window wider, stared at her, then asked, “As in Washington?”

Mona rolled her eyes, nodded. Her lips tightened. “No, as in California.”

“Oh, you got jokes? I'm not the one who needs directions. Just know that according to your contract you cannot take that car,” he said, pointing at her SUV, “out of this state,” then pointed toward the ground. “If you're going to Seattle for real, for real you need to change your contract.” He tapped on a few keys, then enunciated, “Seattle, Washington, is one thousand one hundred and forty miles, airport door-to-door.”

Mona sat for a moment. She'd thought it was closer. Based on the distance, she wouldn't get to Seattle until Sunday. Getting out of the car, she handed him the keys. “This doesn't make any goddamn sense.”

“Neither do you,” he said. “They don't pay me enough, lady. Don't make me stoop to scoop your poop. It ain't happening.”

Mona walked ten feet toward the rental car shuttle, then froze. She went back to the clerk. “Get out of the car. I've changed my mind.”

“Why does that not surprise me?” he said, turning off the engine.

If she was going to be in Los Angeles overnight, she had to be mobile.

CHAPTER 41

Steven

 

“T
hat was stupid, Steven,” he told himself. Maybe he wasn't close to clever after all.

“Why did you terminate Mona's cell phone number?” That was the easiest way to track her ass. No telling where his car was, but even if the police found the car, that wouldn't lead him to Mona. She hadn't used his credit cards in over six months. He didn't know where she banked.

“Fuck!” He could only blame himself for being that dumb.

Sitting in his recliner, he guzzled a half bottle of whiskey. His cell phone interrupted his intent to polish off the other half.

He answered, “Hi, Mom. Happy Thanksgiving.”

“Hey, Buttercup. Happy Thanksgiving. Your dad says the same. How you doing? You having dinner with Mona, I hope.”

He loved his mother. Never wanted to disappoint her or his dad.

“Ma, we talked about this two days ago. Six months didn't cut it. Mona is gone and she's not coming back. What am I gonna do now?”

He felt like a child asking his mother for marital advice, again. He could transfer title of the car to Mona's name. Nah, stupid idea.

“A lot can happen in forty-eight hours. No use in crying over spilled milk. It's time for you to move on. File for a divorce. That way if she starts charging up your cards, you won't be responsible. You've got to protect your credit and the Cunningham family name. Once your divorce is final, get yourself another woman. I don't understand these men sleeping around with a whole lotta women 'cause their woman done left them. You ever thought about dating that news reporter girl, Katherine Clinton? I know she's spoiled already, but she's raised that kid the same way I raised you, and that says a lot about her integrity. She's the marrying kind.”

Divorcing Mona wasn't happening. He had too much invested to let his marriage go. Plus, Mona had his gun. Oh, shit! What if she left it in the car and the police found his bloody gun and his car?

Steven dropped the cell in his lap, covered his ears, then screamed, “Fuck!”

“Buttercup! Buttercup! You okay?” his mom shouted. “Don't let that devil grab ahold of ya. You not going crazy, are you? Answer me! Richard! Come here. I think Buttercup is falling apart! We might have to go back to California.”

Picking up the phone, he quickly composed himself. “No, don't do that. I'm okay, Mom. I just jammed my finger,” he lied.

“Go rinse it off and put some Neosporin on it. You still got that job at the oil—”

“Yes, Ma, yes,” he lied again. And what good would ointment do? “Let me call you back, Ma. I love you. Bye.”

Steven ended the call and drove to Mona's house. Quickly he picked the lock on the back door, entered her kitchen, then locked the door behind him.

He'd try to remember some of the forensic tips Mona had taught him. There was no use in him dismantling the stove's hood; he'd find nothing inside the vent. She was smarter than taking her own advice. He rolled the refrigerator six inches from the wall, inspected the back, nothing unusual. There were no secret compartments on the cabinets, inside the light fixtures, or under the grooves of the travertine floor.

Hurrying to the bedroom, he checked the mattress, frame, headboard, and nightstand. He didn't discover any important information. He opened Mona's closet. There was a chest on the top shelf. As he scooted forward what he hoped to be a plethora of treasures, the wooden box slipped. A dozen or more dildos banged on his head, then fell to the carpet.

“Fuck this.” Steven kicked the vibrators out of his way, then left the way he'd come, out the back door.

CHAPTER 42

Mona

 

 

T
hank God for credit cards.

This time she had more credit than cash in her purse. She would've had a few grand in her pocket had she known Steven was going to act a fool. Didn't expect to be in transit overnight. Holding on to the three hundred dollars she had, Mona's hotel incidentals were charged. She had access to the room, phone, Internet, minibar, dining service, and whatever else she needed for the night.

Sitting on the bed, she prayed for Davis's family. They probably knew by now that something terrible had happened to Davis. Knowing Steven, the police may never find Davis's body.

In a moment of silence, Mona recalled the first night they'd met. Wondered if he'd spoken his destiny into existence. If they'd decided to do one thing differently—go to Disneyland, not stop at the arena, or not eat at the café—he might still be alive. If she hadn't left him alone in the shower with his eyes closed and his back turned, he could've defended himself. Or if she hadn't gone to the kitchen, she could've protected Davis by shooting Steven before he entered the bedroom.

One decision made Davis's death final. But which one?

The holiday gave her an excuse to call her parents. Dialing their number, she wondered if her old room was the same or if her mom had given her things away and made it available for guests.

“Hello.” The baritone voice was familiar.

“Hi, Daddy. You're home. Happy Thanksgiving.” She was happy to talk to her dad.

“Hey, Mona Lisa. Why haven't you called? Your mother has been worrying about you. Where are you? How are you?” he asked.

Wow, she hadn't seen or spoken with her parents in over five years. The sound of her dad's voice brought back fond memories of the few times he was at home. “Guess I'm a chip off the ole block.” They laughed, then she said, “I'm good. I'm in Los Angeles.” She didn't want them to know she was headed to Seattle.

She made small talk until she felt comfortable telling them the real reason she'd called. “So, what did Mom cook?”

“Actually, I cooked for your mom today. We've been spending a lot of time together since my other friend passed away last year,” he said, sounding sad.

Wow, her dad had more than one lover, more than one family, and her mom took him back just like that? “I need to speak to Mom. Is she there?”

“Honey, Mona Lisa is on the phone.”

“Hi, Mona. You all right?” her mother asked.

“Happy Thanksgiving, Mama. I'm good. I'm in LA.”

“Where's Steven?”

Mona should've been prepared for that question. Didn't want to hear her mother say, “I told you so.” They sounded happier than ever, like newlyweds on their honeymoon.

“He's in the back,” Mona said.

“Took you too long to answer. You never were a good liar, Mona Lisa. I heard the hesitation in your voice. What do you need?” her mom asked.

“I know, Mama. It's complicated. I'll explain later. I'm calling because Lincoln called me. Told me you gave him my number. My cell phone is damaged and I need his number so I can call him back. Do you have it?”

“No, I don't.”

“Mama, please. I have to get in touch with him.”

“Mona Lisa, I told you I don't have that boy's number. His grandmother called, asked for your number, and I gave it to her.”

“Can you call his grandmother on three-way and ask her for Lincoln's number? Please, Mama.”

“No, I'm not calling her and that's final. Changing the subject, you hear that Sarah McKenny got the death penalty for first-degree murder. Now, before you say anything, I know something ain't right. I can feel it. Sarah didn't kill Calvin. Is that why you and Steven had to leave town all of a sudden after Calvin's murder? Y'all seen something? Is that why you married him, Mona Lisa? You covering up for him? You out there in the world making foolish mistakes? Don't you ever come back here with blood on your hands, little girl, you hear me?”

The marriage hadn't happened in that order, but her mom's intuition was eerie. If Mona had known what Steven was going to do before she'd said, “I do,” she never would've married him. Mona knew if she confessed everything to her mom, her mother would go straight to the police.

“Sorry I called, Ma. Tell Daddy I love him,” she said, then hung up the phone before her mother figured out too much.

There had to be another way to get in touch with Lincoln. Maybe Katherine had his number.